


penrose triangles

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Time Fuckery, and it shows, i've been admittedly watching too much dark, technically canon compliant i GUESS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29370621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: What is an end but a beginning? And what is a beginning but an end?
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich & Alex Rider
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	penrose triangles

_The great machine whirs all around him; the sound biting into every corner of existence. His head is pounding, and on his tongue, blood is sweet and sharp._

_A man calls his name, and he starts. He had thought the man dead. But no; here he is, alive; though his eyes are losing their vibrancy bit by bit. Blue, though, still, like ice; deep and unfathomable; fathoms deep._

_He crawls across the floor; legs dragging behind him, each inch a painful victory. And still, he moves, ever closer._

_The man speaks; and when he does, his voice is quiet; as if bestowing upon him a great gift._

_He reels back from the words as if slapped; and they might as well be a blow, for all the good they do him. His eyes are wide with disbelief; staring into the fathoms of the man’s eyes; unwilling to believe, and yet, somehow, knowing what he says is true._

_Finally, the man’s eyes fade to dullness; and his hand drops away from his arm._

_His world goes black._

* * *

The cold air seeps into every corner of the room. In the bed, a woman lays, pale, sweat beading on her forehead. “Let me see him,” she croaks; reaching out to the midwife; long fingers thin and pale, as if those of an apparition. “Please.”

It’s been hours since she laid there, pained wails tearing through her; but she hasn’t seen him since. The midwife whisked him away, with reassurances that she was only making sure he was alright. She had believed the woman at the time. Now, she fears that something is wrong with him.

The midwife hesitates. “Alright,” she says, finally. “I’ll go get him.”

She moves away from the bed, out the door, and into the adjoining room; returns, a moment later, with a small bundle in her arms. Swaddled in rosy pink blankets, the boy’s face is barely visible; but Eva recognises him instantaneously. 

“Yasha.” The name falls from her lips even before she realises she’s spoken; before she realises that’s what his name will be. She takes the bundle from the midewife’s arms; holds him close to her chest. Weeps. 

It’s not the first time she had tried. But the others...they had died only hours after birth. 

This one is different. His cheeks are rosy; and when she pulls the blanket away from his face, the cold air rushes in, and he lets out a soft cry. “Yasha,” she says again; reverent, this time; and pulls the blanket back around his face; rocks him from side to side. “Yasha. My son.”

The door opens again; and this time her husband steps through. “How is she?” he asks the midwife. “Will she be alright?”

Always a worrier. It brings a slight smile to her lips. “I’m fine.” She pauses; before offering the bundled up Yasha to him. “Look, Vasily. Our son.”

He takes the bundled form from her arms; smiles hesitantly down at him. “Our son?” he asks; quiet; tentative. She doesn’t blame him. They’ve never gotten this far before. She nods.

“Yasha,” she says. “Yasha Gregorovich. For his grandfather.”

“Yasha,” he repeats. A smile breaks across his face. “Yasha. A fine name. He’ll grow into a strong young man.”

“I hope so,” she murmurs. “I hope so.”

* * *

_He’s young; ten, maybe. The sun beats down overhead, and he drags an arm across his forehead to wipe away the sweat. Before him, an intricate chalk design is taking shape, in reds, blues, yellows, and greens._

_He picks up a white piece of chalk; drags it across the asphalt. Behind, a path of paleness trails, and he follows over it with his fingers._

_A shadow falls over the drawing; and when he looks up, he sees a dark-skinned, petit redhead. “Hey there, little buddy,” the woman greets warmly. “What’s that?”_

_“Heaven,” he replies, truthfully. “My mum and dad are there.”_

_“And all the colours?”_

_“That’s time,” he says. “The past. And the future.”_

_“What about the present?” she asks._

_He giggles. “We’re there, silly. See?” he drags the white chalk to her feet; and then to his own. “That’s the present.”_

_“But it’s all connected,” she points out. “The colours are muddled.”_

_He shrugs. “I dunno. That’s just how it is.” He gives her a critical once over. “You never did say who you were.”_

_A smile crawls across her face. “Jack.” She sticks out her hand. “What’s your name?”_

_He rises from where he’s crouched; takes her larger hand in his own. “My name is—”_

* * *

“—Yassen. Are you even listening to me?”

He starts; broken out of the reverie by Hunter’s voice. The man is staring at him, eyes guarded, but calculating nonetheless. He’s gotten to know Hunter well enough to determine that, by now. “No,” he says, truthfully, because there’s no point in lying to the man. “Sorry,” he adds, a quiet concession. “I will do better.”

“You’ll have to,” Hunter states; flatly. “If you’re not paying attention, that can cost us the mark. Earn us SCORPIA’S disapproval, at best.” _At worst,_ he doesn’t say, _it will earn you your slow death._ Because it will be his death, not Hunter’s. Hunter, they can forgive. Yassen may have potential, but it’s just that—potential. They can always find another Cossack.

He swallows thickly. “All right,” he says. “Our mark?”

“The Admiral,” Hunter says; and takes the rucksack off his back; unzips the largest compartment. Inside, there’s three jars, and a few boxes. “He’s become a hindrance.” He takes the jars and boxes out; opens one of the two empty jars, and begins to mix the substances from the others.

Yassen frowns at the action. “No guns?”

“No guns,” Hunter confirms. “Tonight, we send a different message.”

“Oh.” He thinks, for a few moments. “How will I know the difference?” _When I do not have you to guide me,_ goes unsaid. 

Hunter offers a rare tilt of his lips. “You’ll know by then,” he says. _Or else you’ll be dead._

* * *

_The bed beneath him is cold; the sheets thin. The papery hospital gown does nothing to warm him. The machine, connected to his finger, beeps incessantly. He’s gotten used to it by now, this constant companion of his._

_It’s the first time he’s ventured to sit up by himself. Before, he would have to press the button to call for one of the nurses to help prop him up; the pain, even with the medication, almost too much for him to bear._

_Now, he shakes slightly from exertion. His chest aches furiously, dulled from the stabbing pain it was initially to this unending thrum beneath his skin._

_His fingers grip the edge of the bed, knuckles white; and his head feels light and heavy at the same time; the duality, the paradox of it, disorientating. He glances at the IV inserted into his arm; watches the liquid drip from the bag, slowly; filling his veins._

_At first, it had felt cold, every moment of the day. Now, all he can feel is the aftermath of the shot ringing in his ears._

_It’s odd, what one grows accustomed to._

* * *

When Cray tells him to shoot the children, Yassen does something he’s never done before in his career. He refuses.

Hunter would chide him for it. Tell him that he was being foolish. Yassen’s carried out a hundred jobs, and a hundred more, of various levels of depravity. This would hardly be a drop in the barrel of things he’s done before. 

It’s not as if he hasn’t killed children. But something stops him—perhaps the terror in the boy’s brown eyes. It rings something deep within him; the sound of it clattering through his very being, in every cell.

So he says, again, “No.”

And Cray shoots him.

Predictable, perhaps. Hunter would scold him for this, too; for not expecting it. He ought to be better. Ought to know better.

Perhaps. But something about the situation has thrown him off balance; like surfacing from a deep dive, one that leaves one off kilter for a precious few seconds. It feels repetitive. Like all of this has occurred before.

He doesn’t believe in fate, or predetermination. But when he looks into Alex’s eyes, as he bleeds out, he remembers, many years ago, laying on the floor of Air Force One, his head a jumbled mess with the new truths the man before him had revealed.

Suddenly, he knows what he must say.

So he says it; and watches the confusion and disbelief war in Alex’s expression.

And then he dies.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
